By Kshiti Singh
How do I free myself
Of the thick skinned,
Who bounce constantly my words
Off into the oblivion?
Do I go to my fantasy lands?
Where I pounce and not crouch.
Where my words build worlds.
And, I have a voice.
Where I gently float and lose
The sense of upwards and downwards
And end up moving in
Dizzying round and round circles.
Or, do I embolden
To walk down the treacherous memory lane?
Where I finally hunt
The monsters under the bed.
Where I bleed old wounds,
Yet discover fresh cuts.
Now and then, then and now.
Forever and ever?
Or, do I shut up
To become a cog
Of a machinery like a cuckoo clock
And, scream the hours to its slaves?
Can there be music in it too?
Well, the caged bird does sing.
But, not every caged bird is listened to.
Now, Where do I go?
Where do I rest?
Where do I find a place for myself
In a world that I still can’t call home?